


Mirror Image

by kentucka



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-10
Updated: 2009-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But if one person was Sylar's mirror image, an almost exact duplicate of him except for the parts which mattered, his reverse self -- it was Peter Petrelli.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Image

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [comment_fic](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com) prompt [here](http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/85371.html?thread=19465851#t19465851): Heroes, Sylar/Peter -- mirror image

Sylar appreciated the irony. If there was one thing he'd always been a fan of, it was the humor life held in those moments you least expected it to.

Life was full of mirrors, throwing things back at you which were almost the same, yet slightly different. Giving your own perception of self a frame of reference, showing you without mercy what you were, and that which you weren't. He’d learned that the hard way at Samuel’s carnival. But if one person was Sylar's mirror image, an almost exact duplicate of him except for the parts which mattered, his reverse self -- it was Peter Petrelli.

It wasn’t just good versus evil. Peter’s ability was rooted in empathy while Sylar’s had caused him to cut off all ties to human emotion. They were two parts of a brain. Peter understood how people’s feelings manifested their powers, whereas Sylar found out how they worked logically. It was only natural that they ended up fighting: the other represented the worst they saw in themselves. Sylar still possessed a conscience, a smothered voice in the back of his head, whispering to him of eternal solitude. It was a weakness, this fear of loneliness and cold and insignificance, which Peter filled with friends and family while Sylar steadfastly ignored it, so as not to become as vulnerable. And Peter had experienced his own dark side, had met his hardened, scarred future self. He knew what he was capable of if the right buttons were pushed.

They faced each other in an alleyway, a church bell striking quarter to noon somewhere in the distance. Their hands were at their sides, cackling with electricity or humming with telekinetic energy, glowing with nuclear power or turning the day’s humidity into snowflakes. But neither dared to raise their hands first, knowing the other would follow suit. If one shifted, so did the other, always mirroring actions to make sure neither would gain a split-second’s advantage.

Sylar raised his chin and drew a deep breath to let his voice carry over the distance, watched Peter tense in anticipation of an attack. “I guess this is what they call a Mexican standoff,” he all but shouted.

Yes, irony. History repeated itself even though they had evolved far beyond the need for guns, and like outlaw and sheriff two hundred years before, neither were willing to draw lest the other be quicker, nor surrender his principles. Both of them invincible, there was no end to this fight. Place two mirrors in front of each other, and you’ll see an infinite number of reflections, again and again and again, always the same picture.

“It’s pointless,” Peter agreed. “You’ve missed your chances to kill me when I was handicapped.”

Sylar grinned unhappily. Closing his fists, he extinguished the flames that had burned there, and advanced on Peter quickly.

“Stop!” Peter yelled, throwing one arm forward to freeze, but Sylar easily deflected it with a surge of heat from within his core. “Stay away from me! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Poor Peter, too nice for his own good, turning defensive rather than taking the advantage and attacking his opponent when he wasn’t ready to use his powers. When they were nose to nose, Sylar pushed him, forceful shoves against his chest, backing him into the cracked plaster of a wall. “You just don’t get it, do you? Think I’ve let some prime opportunities go by when I had you at my mercy, saving you when your father tried to kill you?”

Sylar did give him credit for the unwavering eye contact Peter maintained, for the bold, simple nod he managed at the direct question.

“I can’t kill you, Peter. I have realized that a long time ago. And I think you feel it too.”

Peter dismissed the crazy notion with a snort. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“How disappointing. I always thought you so much more intelligent. Do you really not know?” Sylar could hear the accelerated heartbeat; this particular power had been so hard to master, but it paid off in the strangest of moments. With each beat per minute, Sylar’s triumph grew.

“You’re my mirror image, Peter,” he explained slowly, deliberately aiming for a condescending tone. “You are me, what I would become if I ever allowed myself to cross that line. My moral compass, which needle I follow south. And vice versa, I’m all that which you are afraid of turning into.

“It’s such poetic justice, Peter. Can’t you see? Who will name a man a villain if nobody fights against him? What do you need a hero for, if there’s no-one to stop? It’s like playing chess against yourself, you’ll just end up mad. Without each other, neither of us would matter to the world.”

“You’ve already gone mad,” Peter pointed out, and Sylar laughed.

“Maybe I have.” Ducking forward, Sylar briefly pressed his lips against Peter’s.

Shocked, Peter just stared at Sylar for a moment. Finding no words, he sped away, gone within a blink.

Sylar leaned back against the wall, chuckling at Peter’s reaction, then laughing, until he had to hold his stomach and doubled over. All other points aside, it was just too damned much fun to fuck with Peter’s mind, to ever kill him off.


End file.
